


strange weather

by suisei (nanakomatsus)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Light Angst, Slice of Life, chauffeur!ushijima, pop star!oikawa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 08:10:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21443002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nanakomatsus/pseuds/suisei
Summary: in which ushijima observes the many faces of oikawa tooru through a rear view mirror
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 93





	strange weather

**Author's Note:**

> this will be my first contribution to the ushioi tag. i've been reading fics since the characters were introduced but never got round to writing them myself. apologies if it's too vague or rushed.
> 
> soundtrack: shouldn't, couldn't, wouldn't - 88rising

Cameras flashing. People screaming his name. He takes a deep breath and pulls down the black mask obscuring the lower half of his face, indulging them with a bright, charming smile. Iwa’s palm is flat against his back, steady.

A song by his own group comes on shuffle. It grates against his ears. Oikawa grits his teeth, irritated. Can’t even get a hand on his phone to skip the track. And it’s his chorus when the wave of people overcomes him and his team. 

It’s a blur for a few moments as he’s almost washed away, crushed between a dozen bodies. He can’t hear anything, can’t think of anything other than  _ let this all stop- _

Iwaizumi’s grip is iron-clad around his wrist, guiding him through the crowd as security shouts orders around them. He’s shoved through the doors, the noise around him drowning out as they slide to a close. 

His breathing’s heavy, hands are shaking, but he manages to yank the earphones out and throw them across the empty seat beside him. The vacuum’s disrupted as Iwaizumi reappears, climbing into the passenger seat, cursing as he slams the door shut. 

“Useless cunts, can’t even do their fucking job properly-” the manager growls, massaging his temples. 

Silence seeps in, filling the space inside the vehicle. Oikawa lays down for a bit, slowing down his breathing until his brain’s stopped spinning. His hand feel around for his phone on instinct and he checks his notifications absentmindedly, anything to keep his mind off the noise outside as they’re stuck in a crawl.

It’s a little too quiet, he thinks, finally pinning down the discomfort in his stomach. Out of the corner of his eyes, he catches a glimpse of the rearview mirror.

“Who are you?” He asks pointedly, addressing the unfamiliar man, who doesn’t even spare a glance at him, keeping his eyes on the road. Not that they’re moving much.

“Apologies for the late introduction. I am Ushijima Wakatoshi. I have been hired as your chauffeur.” Oikawa frowns at that.

“Don’t use that word. I hate it. It’s elitist,” he snaps. The new driver doesn’t even blink.

“If you have someone driving you around, are you not one of the elite?” His voice is a baritone, attractive but monotonous. Oikawa’s eye twitches. He kicks Iwaizumi’s seat from behind, earning a grunt.

“Where’s Ukai?” He demands. His manager merely hums distractedly in response, busy rearranging tomorrow’s schedule on his phone.

“I didn’t tell you? He’s gone home. Family emergency,” Iwaizumi replies simply.

“And?” Oikawa presses.

“Don’t think he’ll be back anytime soon. Play nice.”

With that, the conversation comes to a halt. Oikawa deflates further into his seat. Crossing his arms and plugging his earphones back in, making sure it’s Bach and nothing else, he goes to glaring holes into the driver’s headrest. 

Ushijima-what’s-his-name keeps his eyes on the road, unperturbed. They’re finally turning into the highway now.

“What was your name again?” Oikawa asks later, nevermind Iwaizumi’s violent snoring.

“Ushijima Wakatoshi,” the man answers flatly, posture still upright, despite having been driving for two hours already. Oikawa sets his phone down, pulls on his sleep mask, and settles against a cushion.

“What a mouthful.”

“Can we cancel everything today?”

“Shut the fuck up and get ready. Five minutes.”

Oikawa sighs into his pillow, tossing his phone over his shoulder.  _ Iwa-chan can be so mean sometimes, _ he thinks to himself.

“You’re ridiculous,” Iwaizumi says to him with an exasperated sigh through his rolled-down window. Oikawa beams at him, sashaying in his blindingly white fur coat.

“It’s Louis. Got it for my birthday, remember?” He says with a proud grin. His manager grimaces, shaking his head, rolling the windows up. Ushijima appears then, waiting in attention by the doors. Oikawa rolls his eyes and climbs in. 

“You don’t need to come out every time. The doors open themselves,” he says contemptuously. Ushijima doesn’t say anything and waits obediently until the starlet is in.  _ Like a dog, _ Oikawa smirks to himself once the doors slide close.

Their first stop is a photoshoot in downtown Tokyo. 

Ushijima waits patiently by the van, sipping his coffee. He flips through the day’s newspaper, glancing through the political scandals, lingering on the sports section and finally spending a little too long on the entertainment section. Oikawa Tooru’s face is plastered on the front page with his group mates, the six of them smiling, arms around each other. 

_ ‘Six and strong’ _ the title reads. He continues. Something about an undecided contract renewal. Optimism about the future. All out of his realm of comprehension. So after a while, he folds the page and tucks the issue under his arm. Something in the distance catches his eye. He turns his vision ahead.

Up on the roof, four floors up, Oikawa Tooru stares him down while the crew behind him sets up. He’s dressed in a black, clingy v-neck sweater and loose jeans. Hair’s tussled.  _ Pretty, _ Ushijima thinks, like an afterthought,  _ even from a distance. _

The pop star sticks his tongue out at him and swivels on his heel, disappearing out of sight.

The next stop is a fashion event. Ushijima listens on as Yachi the stylist nags at Iwaizumi while fixing Oikawa’s hair. They’d gotten ready after the shoot with the starlet donning a khaki turtleneck, leather coat, pants, and boots all fitted with some type of bondage-wear. His lids are a smoky bronze with eyes of golden lenses. 

“I’m not wearing any of that shit,” Iwaizumi barks, tugging at his relatively simple outfit of a black turtleneck and jeans. Oikawa laughs melodiously. Ushijima suddenly craves honey dew. Maybe he’ll grab some while he waits.

“Don’t be such a man, Iwa-chan. A little liner will do you some good,” he purrs. The manager flairs red, fists tightening.

“No way.”

“Forget it, Oikawa-kun, it doesn’t matter,” the petite blonde lady sighs. Ushijima hears the hiss of hairspray. The smell hits him hard. He pushes down a cough.

“You’re, right Yacchin. He’s a lost cause,” Oikawa sing-songs.

“Fuck off.” 

The next time Ushijima sees them is a little after midnight. He picks them up from the back entrance. The two men appear exhausted, the van seeming to rock under their weight as they dispose themselves on their seats heavily, sighing in unison.

“Ushijima, drop me off at the company building. And…” Iwaizumi trails off. They both slowly turn back to see Oikawa slumped across the back seat, back rising and falling steadily. The manager’s shoulders relax. 

“Get him home.”

He’s in a dilemma now. They’re parked by the lobby of the condominium. Ushijima kills the engine and sits for a while and thinks it through. He could just wake the man up and incur his wrath for a few minutes. Waiting for him to wake up would be a little counter-productive. 

He steals a glance at the pop star through the rearview mirror. For once, Oikawa’s expression is natural. None of his haughty pouts or his fake, charming smiles. He looks peaceful. Ushijima clears his throat.

That seems to do the trick.

Oikawa stirs, his body waking up before his eyes do. He sits up before his eyes flutter open.

“We’ve arrived.”

“I can see that.” He grumbles, voice heavy with sleep as he gathers his things. The door slides open. He ambles out somewhat gracefully despite the half-awake state he’s in.

“Goodnight, Oikawa-san,” Ushijima says lowly. The man pauses, as if thinking of something to say. Apparently there’s nothing other than-

“Yeah, whatever. Goodnight.”

“You don’t care, do you?”

“What are you saying? Of course I do-”

“But here we are.”

There’s a pause. The light turns red. The van slows to a stop.

“That’s it.”

Another pause.

“Don’t. Look, I’ll try-”

“You’ve tried your hardest, Tooru. It’s fine-”

“Just let me-”

“Mister, open the door, will ya?” The girl’s tapping him on the shoulder now. Ushijima’s finger hovers over the button.

“Ushijima-”

“Tooru. That’s it.”

Another pause. He hears Oikawa sigh in defeat. He pushes the button.

The silence is deafening as the door slides to a close. The light up ahead turns green. Ushijima hesitates once more, foot hovering over the accelerator. Then, the cars behind him begin honking. Oikawa’s voice comes out low and strained.

“What are you waiting for? Go.”

So he does.

This one seems quiet and deserted enough. Ushijima pulls over. Oikawa gets out without another word. A few moments pass. Just as the chauffeur’s about to settle himself in-

There’s a knock on his window. He rolls the glass down to find Oikawa staring at him, puffy-eyed, lips set in a straight line, looking gaunt as ever. He’s not glaring this time. That’s rare. Ushijima regards him with mild puzzlement. 

“What are you doing? Let’s go.” He says hollowly and turns to leave. Ushijima does as he’s told.

The place is pleasant. They’ve got a nice window side view of the Meguro river. Shame is the cherry blossoms aren’t blooming yet. The streetlights create a nice ambience outside, their mellow yellow light reflecting off the calm waters. There aren’t too many people in here, much less people who’d recognize Oikawa.

“Tell me about yourself,” Oikawa says offhandedly, two swigs of bourbon later. Ushijima’s got himself an espresso.

The question throws him slightly off-kilter. Other than the usual begrudging morning greetings, complaints and orders, they’d never had an actual conversation. Ushijima isn’t so sure how he’s supposed to answer.

So he starts with the basics: Miyagi and his family. Oikawa hums, looking out the window.

“Did you do sports? I can see you’ve got  _ some  _ muscle underneath all that-” he motions vaguely, waving his hand in squiggly lines, “-boring.”

Ushijima pushes the comment aside. “Yes. I played volleyball.” This seems to pique the pop star’s interest. Oikawa’s eyes widen a fraction. He takes another swig.

“So?” He prompts. Ushijima weighs his options. There aren’t any.

“I was scouted for the national team,” he says flatly. Oikawa arches a perfect eyebrow.

“So why are you here and not at the Olympics, then,” he says it more like a statement than a question, almost as an insult. Ushijima sets his jaw.

“I got injured.”

They let the conversation simmer for a few moments, each of them taking sips of their drinks. “My condolences.”

Then, “You must’ve been a big shot. But here you are driving my insufferable self around,” Oikawa continues with a small chuckle. Ushijima takes no offence. It is what it is. Besides, though he’s not the best at reading into things, he guesses that last statement wasn’t exactly aimed at him. 

“I played too. Volleyball. Middle school. We were one of the best in the prefecture. I got the best setter award twice,” he sniffs, a little bit of his cocky self returning. Ushijima doesn’t know if it’s a good thing. He doesn’t mind.

“Then I got scouted and came here and the rest-” A swig. “-is history.”

It stops there. Ushijima passively watches Oikawa down another three full glasses. He decides it’s about time they leave when the singer’s head is hanging, unable to even sit properly. Thankfully, he’s still got enough in him to make it to the van with some help.

The real problem begins when they arrive in the parking lot of Oikawa’s condominium. Ushijima stares at his blacked-out form crumpled in the back seat, back rising and falling rhythmically. 

With great effort, he manages to get Oikawa onto his back. Slowly, they make their way to the lobby, and up the elevator. Ushijima fumbles around for his phone, straining to keep Oikawa from slipping off him. He thumbs through his contacts and swipes on a familiar name.

Iwaizumi picks up fast, but the voice on the other end of the line is a little more than disgruntled.

“Just be careful. He gets a little… difficult,” Iwaizumi warns. Ushijima says his thanks and enters the pin. The door buzzes open.

As they step in, the corridor lights up to reveal a surprisingly simple space. Lots of modern furniture. But it doesn’t feel stiff or imposing. There’s a lot of pictures on the walls. Ushijima averts his eyes. It’s not for him to see. 

He finds the master bedroom easily enough. Inside, it’s the same as the rest of the house. A queen size bed with a light turquoise bedspread, a modest-sized walk-in closet, two shelves of books, boxes of what Ushijima figures is fan memorabilia and more photographs on the walls.

What particularly catches his eye is: a framed jersey with a signature, a team Japan muffler and a volleyball sitting in one corner.

He lets Oikawa down, lowering him onto the bed as best as he can. Not that the other would be coming round anytime soon. He makes to stand up and leave but suddenly there’s an arm hooking around his neck, pulling him down. Before he can stop himself, Ushijima loses balance and falls head first into Oikawa Tooru’s embrace with a grunt.

Oikawa’s got him trapped by the neck with two arms keeping him close. They’re chest-to-chest. Ushijima’s face is in the pop star’s hair, arms on either side, trying not to crush the smaller man. He smells like some soft, feminine perfume. Expensive. Ushijima can’t tell if it’s his or his ex’s. It’s a nice smell. Like honey. Hair’s soft too. 

He can’t help it. He brings a hand up to run his fingers through Oikawa’s hair, achingly slow. Breath’s hot against his neck as well, ghosting the small hairs at his nape. Ushijima feels his body heat up.

Gently, he begins to extract himself from the other’s hold. With an audible sigh that makes Ushijima lose his bearings for a split second, Oikawa turns on his side and slips deeper into his alcohol-induced slumber. 

Ushijima leaves the home with the soft click of the door behind him. 

He takes a cold shower when he gets home. 

He doesn’t sleep.

Ushijima can feel Oikawa watching him. 

“Yacchin, do you want to hear a story?” He begins cheerfully. The stylist hums in response, patting down foundation.

“Yesterday, I broke up with Mina,” he continues, cheerily, not a care in the world, as if the ordeal were a mere inconvenience. Yachi lets out an audible gasp and begins to fuss, oh Oikawa-kun. 

“I’m not done,” Oikawa carries on. “Then, I was kidnapped.”

“What? Why didn’t you call us?!” The girl squeaks in distress, completely buying into his fibs. Ushijima’s grip around the wheel tightens. He keeps his eyes on the road.

“Oh, but it was just Ushiwaka,” he concludes with a light, airy laugh. Not a care in the world. Ushijima tries to block him out, to keep his irritation in check, but Oikawa’s voice is like butter, he wants to listen to it all day if he can. Even at his own expense.

Yachi bursts into giggles. “You two seem to be getting on quite alright now,” she says, oblivious. 

Oikawa hums, a sort of sarcasm to it. “We sure do!”

They don’t acknowledge each other for days after that. Iwaizumi doesn’t really catch on because well, they never did talk much before. Ushijima is certain it is better this way. 

It is some time later. 

It’s raining. It has been since morning. The day’s schedule had ended early. It is only half-past-four. They’re on their way back to Oikawa’s. The light turns red and they slow to a stop on the Shibuya Crossing. 

And there, up ahead, on the giant LED screen of the Tsutaya building is Oikawa Tooru smiling down at them. The next cut is him laughing, trying on a red jumper. Then it’s him dressed in a tux, dancing. Then it’s him posing for the camera in a neon shirt, a pair of overalls, singing in an all-denim fit.

Oikawa Tooru is radiant against the grey of the sky. Blinding, almost.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ushijima catches a glimpse of the same Oikawa Tooru with his chin on his hand looking out at the crowd crossing in front of them. He stares at the faceless people pensively, pink lips a splash of colour against pale, supple skin. 

Ushijima keeps his gaze straight ahead. But Oikawa’s there again, smiling down at him once more.

“I’m taking a hiatus. From the group. Gonna try something new. Iwaizumi hates it, but he can’t say no.” 

Ushijima doesn’t say anything. Oikawa continues to look out his window.

“Just thought you should know,”

Two weeks later, main vocalist of popular boy group JOHSAI, Oikawa Tooru announces his hiatus from team. The six of them have renewed their contract with their company. He cries at the press conference. It is genuine, Ushijima knows, because he cries in the van after as well. Iwaizumi says nothing. 

They end up in Asakusa later. Ushijima joins Oikawa at the edge of an empty pier, looking out at the waterway of the Sumida river. 

“Am I making the right choice?” He murmurs, more to himself. Ushijima watches a river cruise boat pass by. The minutes tick on.

“You up for a game?” The request is odd. Ever since the night of his break up, they hadn’t spoken a word about volleyball. Ushijima complies anyway.

It’s been years for the both of them. 

Half an hour in and they’re both soaked with sweat. Oikawa’s faring a little better.  _ Dance training is just as intense as track and field, _ he says. Ushijima doesn’t doubt that.

“You’ve still got it in you, Mr. Japan,” Oikawa says with a whistle as the ball slams into the floor at the other side of the court with such intensity its sound reverberates throughout the gym. Ushijima lands with a small grunt.

“So do you.” Oikawa is impressive. He’s precise without being too flashy. His tosses are just right. They’re a perfect match. 

They go at it with serves as well. They’re neck-to-neck. Almost. 

“That’s going to bruise,” Oikawa says gingerly, observing his forearms as they take a break. Ushijima wraps his hand around the other man’s wrist, rubbing circles into his skin, something of a wordless apology. Oikawa’s expression softens for a moment.

“Okay,” he says hoarsely.

They continue until Ushijima’s collapsed. His breathing is heavy. His head is spinning. His left shoulder’s aching more than it ever has in years. Oikawa jogs over to him, the sound of his shoes a soft tapping against the wooden floor.

“You okay?” He asks, not bothering to disguise his concern. Ushijima focuses on regulating his breathing, tries to slow his thoughts down until his eyes are finally able to keep up with his surroundings.

“Up you go.” Oikawa is stronger than he seems. Very much so, Ushijima thinks through the haze in his mind. 

(Not that he’d ever doubted it.) 

They make it to locker room soon enough. He hears Oikawa rummaging through the medical kit. Then there is a warm press of fingers against his shoulders as the setter begins massaging deep heat into his skin. He works in silence. He’s experienced, that much is obvious. There’s a flame wherever their skin meets.

Ushijima stops him before he can begin bandaging, gently relieving him of the white roll. His hand travels up Oikawa’s arm to cup the side of the man’s face.

Gravity collapses in on itself, ceasing to exist in the space between them

Oikawa Tooru is radiant even in dim light. Oikawa Tooru is radiant even beneath the shadows of Ushijima’s figure that encapsulate him. Oikawa Tooru is radiant even as he screws his eyes shut and throws his head back, lips parted. 

Oikawa Tooru is radiant especially when he fixes his gaze on Ushijima’s as they fall apart together.

_ “So I tell him it’s selfish, that’s what it is!” _

“And what does he say to that?”

“ _ Kiss my ass-  _ who writes this shit?” Oikawa scowls at the script in his hands.

“Just be thankful you got the part. They say they’re going for the Academy Awards with this,” Iwaizumi drones on, rearranging the schedule for tomorrow.

“It is quite terrible,” Ushijima agrees.

“Thank you, Ushiwaka!”

“But you’ll do well.”

“I will, won’t I?”

The chauffeur cracks a smile. “Yes, you will.”


End file.
